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This one’s for Laurie, who could teach Deena a thing or two about being a smart, strong, beautiful, witty woman with the determination to always do what’s right.
Thanks for partnering with this faded hero, and reminding me what it means to fly.
Neil
Prologue
December. Saturday morning. 3:00 A.M.
Three drops of blood fell to the floor, one after the other in rapid succession. Strapped to a splintered chair, Joe watched them plummet to the ground. He thrashed against his bonds, elderly body too weak to snap the ropes. The glow of a neon sign bathed the apartment and the old man’s fruitless struggle. It flickered through the window, carved into red-white slats by a filthy set of venetian blinds.
Joe’s tormentor, hooded and silent, knelt by his side. The man’s hands were gloved—the kind of gloves one wears to garden rather than shovel snow. He carried an object on his arm, heavy and distinct. He tested its weight, marveling at the balance before placing it against a toolbox that he’d brought along. A handheld power drainer rested on the toolbox, emitting a faint, green corona. The drainer’s signature glow intermingled with the neon from the window, mixing to a muddy yellow and eliminating the last of Joe’s fading powers. The hooded man secured Joe’s ropes, pulling them tight. The fraying bonds cut into his skin; each time he twisted to free his hands, more blood eked out, hanging in the air before splashing to the floor.
Joe worked his mouth, possibly trying to plead for mercy, but his tongue had been removed along with most of his teeth. The hooded man had taken half the teeth with pliers. Another quarter had been extracted with barbecue tongs. The only things left in Joe’s ravaged mouth were the remaining molars, flecks of spittle, and additional, fat droplets of blood.
The hooded man massaged Joe’s arm, doing his best to soothe the frightened prisoner. He reminded Joe why this had to happen; in fact, he detailed the road that had led to this moment. Unfortunately, his captive’s recollection proved as hazy as the moonlight. The hooded man completely understood. The events leading to the night’s proceedings were not as important as the feelings he endeavored to elicit from the deserving prisoner. Pain. Anguish and betrayal. Sorrow and shame.
“That’s it,” the man said. “Not so bad. We’re nearly done.” He rustled a hand through the old man’s hair, eliciting chills at the back of Joe’s neck. Leather rasped against wood as the hooded man used the chair for support, carefully rising to his feet.
“Just two things left,” he continued, “then it will all be over.”
He gripped the front of Joe’s rumpled shirt. Buttons tore away, bouncing into the darkness, exposing wrinkled skin to the crisp December air. The remaining nubs of Joe’s teeth soundlessly chattered. He’d lost a lot of blood. The scuffle, the beating—both had taken more out of the elderly captive than his tormentor could have dared dream.
Because he’s a fossil, the hooded man reminded himself. He let himself get weak. He let himself get soft. And goddamned stupid.
Gloved fingers expertly rolled back one of Joe’s shirtsleeves and then the other, folding them away from the old man’s biceps. The hooded man arranged elderly, goose-pimply arms so that both of Joe’s hands rested palm-up against the armrests. Then he stepped back from his handiwork, walking toward the middle of the room.
“There,” he announced. “That’s one.”
Joe tried to catch a breath, squinting to find his captor. But the hooded man blended expertly into the shadows, a mystery against stacks of rotting newspapers. He’d been surprised to find Joe in such squalid lodgings. The building was a slum and the rental itself a suffocating closet. Dusty posters hung on the walls, tacked into cracking plaster. Discolored clothing was strewn across available surfaces. Molding periodicals, dating back a year or more, completed the hoarder’s paradise. And the remains of Joe’s dinner—an underwarmed hamburger paired with shoestring fries—dotted the landscape in front of the stove, overturned in their too-brief struggle. He looked around, searching for anything that might speak to the old man’s former grandeur. But nothing could be found, because either it lay beneath the refuse or Joe had sold it for bottles of Infinity Light. Nothing at all, apart from the object resting against the toolbox.
“Now,” the hooded man began. He spoke with measured tones, indulging himself. “Now,” he said again with additional gravitas, “just one more thing.”
He rested both hands against Joe’s kneecaps. Joe’s breath, sour and desperate, wafted against the fabric of the hood. He let the moment stretch out into eternity, relishing the feeling as he listened to Joe’s rapid, frantic breathing.
“You know I have to do this. Right?”
Tears sprang to the corners of Joe’s shuttered eyelids, oozing out and then coursing down beaten, weathered cheeks. He nodded once, and the hooded man acknowledged the nod, though Joe could hardly appreciate the gesture. After that, the man swallowed beneath the hood and reached down for the object. Adjusting his weight, he hoisted the heavy artifact, swinging it in an arc to gather momentum. It glanced against its target’s vulnerable skull, connecting with a sickening crack and driving Joe to the floor. The item bounced away, jarred by the impact, slipping from the hooded man’s hands. Vibratory sound rang throughout the apartment, reverberating in his ears. He lifted Joe back to a sitting position, righting the chair, and retrieved the object to strike again. He smashed its edge against Joe’s temple and then at the base of his neck. It wasn’t until the fourth volley that Joe—gurgling for air through bubbles of blood—recognized what the hooded man had been holding. The old fart forced a smile. The item had been dear to him, like his spilled blood. They made him special in ways others could never understand. No one but a select few, like the man in the hood.
The man rammed the item into Joe’s nose. Joe struggled to catch his sputtering breath, but the damn thing proved too fast, and there was too much blood in the way. He choked to death where he sat, wheezing and gasping in the slatted, mud-colored light.
The hooded man looked up, completely drained, letting his head loll back against his neck. He didn’t want to look down. Staring at the ceiling provided respite from the blood. The red was gone now. Everything was black.
Black forever.
Joe’s corpse settled, and the hooded man got to business. Nosy neighbors might have heard the altercation, and he had moments before somebody decided to call a cop. He knelt again, tugging at the ropes, ensuring the body was secure. Satisfied, he adjusted Joe’s collar, pulling it aside to reveal a series of tattoos on the old man’s skin. The first depicted a tank—a Pershing, an M26 as used during the Korean War. To its side lay a series of soldiers, bodies twisted beneath the Pershing’s heavy tread. He prodded the folds of Joe’s skin, trying to best present the details of the tank’s lurid slaughter. Grunting, he moved on, turning his attention to the dead man’s arm.
The hooded man rose and started toward the door, snapping off the drainer while gathering his tools. He reached the knob and looked back, taking in the grisly scene one last time. He entertained spending more time with the departing message. He wondered whether or not to leave his calling card of choice. No, the man decided, considering the consequences. Far too premature.
Soon enough, he promised himself. Let them find the first. Then I can allow myself to take more time.
After this, I can take certain liberties.
There was more to do. More to which he would attend before the week was over.
Outside, flashing through the neon, a man in purple spandex raced around the building. The apartment shuddered from the flying man’s passing. Windows shattered inward; glass exploded across the room and rained down over Joe’s slumped corpse. The hooded man froze, remaining motionless to avoid attracting attention, but the costumed flier never stopped, moving too fast to register what had happened inside apartment 3A.
It wouldn’t have mattered if he had. The ability to fly didn’t make one a hero any more than the ability to drive made one a courier. The real heroes would arrive soon, though, armed with badges and drainers and guns.
Smiling beneath the hood, Joe’s killer turned the doorknob and let the neon light spill into the hallway. He stepped out, closing the door behind him. The apartment lay silent, the only sounds a faint dripping of blood, the tinkling of glass, and the brisk, cutting wind whistling in through fractured windows.
1
December. Monday morning. 6:25 A.M.
“I-I-I won’t diiiiie for you … it’s-a henchman’s foll-ee! I-I-I won’t liiiiie for you … yes, it’s truuuue…”
Deena Pilgrim tapped her fingers in time to the music, drumming against the steering wheel of her SUV. Two teeth bit into her lower lip, boosting her adrenaline as she pressed down on the gas. Shaking her head, short hair whipping this way and that, she flashed the passenger to her left a yes-yes-yes as she dug into the song’s bridge, number fifteen on a list of the forty most popular in the nation. The adjacent driver stared and then rolled her eyes and sped away. Soccer mom, Deena ventured. Soccer Mom can’t understand, she decided with a smirk, rat-tat-tatting her digits on the wheel. This here, sunshine? This is the high point of my day.
The station cut to a commercial, so Deena hit the shuffle to find another. After several fruitless stabs, she landed on classic rock, shrugged, and adjusted her rate of percussion to a mellower groove. She steered the dented SUV through town, heading to a place she didn’t want to go, listening to a song she didn’t want to hear.
Despite the suboptimal soundtrack, Deena did her best to enjoy the moment. Right now, right here; before the day went to hell. Before she got dragged into another bonkers situation beyond her control. That had been happening often these last several years. Over time, she’d made the most of the period allotted between receiving a call and arriving on scene. Unfortunately today, she’d completely lost the vibe—the music wasn’t cutting it, and her thoughts were already down among the bullshit. Deena stabbed the dial and powered down her radio, fingers still tapping a nervous staccato against the wheel.
She focused on the road, trying to put the pain of the last two years out of her mind. Avenues flew past as she navigated on autopilot through the streets, the happy song that had filled her head fading away as the burden of being Deena bullied itself back to the forefront. She rubbed her eyes, trying to wipe her mind, but she could not block out the horrible memories. That, she knew, would take something special. For that, she would need powers or some shit.
Been there, Deena bitterly laughed. Done that, bought the DVD. Didn’t help.
She’d briefly had powers, sure. Unwantedly gifted to her by a scum fuck thug with loose hands and looser genetics. A Powers virus, spread among the populace, designed to impart killer abilities to its user. That would have been bad enough. Deena being Deena had made it worse. She’d isolated herself, threatening relationships at both work and home—relationships she knew would save her from drowning. Her career trajectory had been flushed down the pipeline, and she’d forced herself into exile, leaving the country before eventually returning to try again.
Oh, and she’d been pregnant, if you could believe that. Until she’d lost it during the fiasco in Los Angeles. The debacle with the motherbitching Federal Powers Bureau.
Only a little bit pregnant, she chided herself, laughing at the irony. She had to laugh. If she didn’t, she’d probably cry—or worse: make somebody else cry.
Between the disasters that followed the bureau and what came before—the colossal fuckup in Chicago—truth be told, Deena could trace a direct line to this moment back to her apple-cheeked, potty-mouth beginnings on the homicide beat. Hell, if I’m calling my shot, everything went to shit before I accidentally tore off Johnny Royale’s arm. Right before I found out that Walker had powers.
Walker. As if on cue, her partner appeared in the windshield, big as life and twice the size. He stepped out of a patrol car at 851 Taylor, about to venture inside. Deena pulled up to the curb and rubbed both hands against the vents before exiting the car. She slammed the door and hustled to catch up, blowing into her palms for warmth.
“What,” she opened, “no fuckin’ coffee?”
Walker ignored her pathetic salvo and pressed into the building, shoving aside the usual gawkers. The early ones were mostly neighborhood passersby, but Deena spied familiar bylines circulating throughout the lot, barely restrained by crowd control. Grimacing, wishing she were huddled in front of the SUV’s shitty heater, Deena scrambled up the stoop and followed Walker inside.
Christian Walker and Deena Pilgrim had been partnered years ago, right before the unfortunate (and publicly visible) Retro Girl murder—a case that had defined both their careers. The tragic, personal experience had put them on the map. Since then, Deena had done her best to crack the enigma that was Detective Christian Walker, but was no closer now than she’d been years before. Insular and secretive, the broad-shouldered detective hadn’t given Deena much to work with until (after an unauthorized bit of sleuthing) she discovered that Walker had worked the other side of the badge as a masked hero named Diamond. After an illustrious career, Diamond had lost his superpowered abilities. That alone might have engendered crankiness in any human being. But Walker had elevated “bitter and remorseful” into a bravura performance, one that delighted all ages … or at least his long-suffering partner, the spunky detective forced to swallow the man’s grumpy shit on a 24-7 basis. Thankfully, Deena took on similar tread as the years peeled away, keeping pace with her partner’s cycle of nightmares. “Bitter and remorseful” proved kiddie-clown-crap compared to the endless list of shit that had taken its toll on Deena’s once bright-eyed, wise-assed demeanor.
Yet still they expect me to get out of bed. I will admit, she cracked to herself in return, it’s been interesting. And by “interesting,” I mean “exhausting.”
“Which is why,” she concluded out loud, “I asked for the goddamn coffee.”
Walker glanced back from four stairs up. “What was that?”
“Nothing. Keep climbing; I’m enjoying the view.”
“Adding sexual harassment to the list of black marks on your personnel record?”
“One more black mark and I get a free fro-yo.”
Walker didn’t look back. “Barely worth it. The only flavors at the precinct are ‘doughnut’ and ‘dysentery.’ And last I heard, we’re out of ‘doughnut.’”
Trading quips, they climbed the final flight of stairs, arriving at a barrier of police tape that blocked the third-floor landing. Walker tore it aside and beckoned Deena to follow, leading toward the open door
of apartment 3A. She hesitated at the threshold. Truthfully, Deena needed a minute before flipping her day on end. A moment existed for every detective in which a single step led from the blissful paradise of ignorance into the harrowing excruciation of purgatory. A twist of the dial, like shutting off a song, that kicked a ladder out from under a detective’s feet, sending him or her down a slippery, dangerous chute. Deena wrestled back her nerves and shook off strangling anxiety.
Not again, she begged to any and all of the powers that be, doing her best to assume a brave face. Please, let this be an easy one. Lob us a softball, okay? Drug addicts. Bangers. Nothing that jams electric death rays up my cooter.
She finished the prayer and steeled her resolve. Painting a smirk across her face, Deena followed her partner into the apartment.
The air felt metallic and cold. Walker had already circumvented a labyrinth of glass and refuse, reaching the far wall of the claustrophobic rental. Sunlight filtered in through torn venetian blinds. Forensic units clomped around, dropping numbers for reference and placing samples into tiny bags.
Deena tiptoed over a pizza box to arrive at Walker’s side. He faced the wall, shoulders blocking the victim from view. His arms were folded and his head slumped; Deena could tell something was wrong. Walker’s body language suggested some kind of emotional blow, confirmed by the pass of a hand over his craggy, chiseled features. She ducked his left arm, grabbing her first, eye-opening look at the morning’s victim.
The dead man had been strapped to a wooden chair. Bound with thick, bloodstained ropes, the corpse had been situated before a window; shards of glass coated both the body and carpet. Cold wind whistled through the broken panes, circulating through the apartment and ruffling the vic’s brittle hair. The deceased wore a shirt and skivvies, the former unbuttoned and flapping in the breeze. Deena’s eyes darted to the man’s legs, charting trails of bile down to a pool of congealed blood. The medical examiner had his back to the detectives, hunkered down while tapping notes into an off-brand, police-issue tablet. Slight and ratlike, stubble covering a protruding overbite, the examiner wore cheap eyeglasses and latex gloves. The knees of his pants were filthy. Deena looked back to the corpse’s face. The victim had been savagely beaten, his features unrecognizable, eyes and mouth a pulpy mess. His teeth littered the floor, yanked and discarded. A technician swept several into a bag with a tiny, sterile broom.